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Title: The grey of dawn
Pairing: Sherlock/Mycroft
Warnings: sibling incest
Rating: NC17
Beta: unbetaed. Apologies in advance for all the mistakes
Word count: approx. 2,550
Summary: They held each other for what felt like seconds, the blood pounding heavily in Mycroft’s ears, and lower down.
Disclaimer: Sherlock and Mycroft belong to the BBC and Steve Moffat and Mark Gatiss. My profit is the joy I had in writing. Yours, I hope, the joy in reading
Dawn grey. When Mycroft had read the words printed beneath the colour that had immediately leapt out at him from the array of colour swatches spread out on his desk his nose had wrinkled in displeasure. He understood all too well why manufacturers of such a homely commodity as paint had chosen to label the shades they stocked with names lifted straight out of the products in the catalogue of the Mills & Boon company, but that didn’t mean he had to applaud the current system. Swallowing his distaste Mycroft had ticked the colour and, with a sigh, reached over for the lamp shade catalogue his PA had provided him with.
But Mycroft was very pleased with the final result of his sojourn into the tedious world of interior decoration. For his new office – hidden in a bunker that had been quickly dug beneath the hallowed wine cellars of The Diogenes during those twilight months of the Phoney War – suited him far better than the bland atrocity he had to make do with at Whitehall. Here, he was certain to be left alone so he could concentrate on his daily task of sailing the ship of state through the increasingly erratic waves that seemed to rule modern society. In this office his sole connection with the outside world was his computer, the red phone on his desk with its direct link him to his dear friend, should the work demand it, and his PA, who appreciated the seclusion almost as much as Mycroft.
And, all in all, ludicrous as the name of the tint he’d elected to cover the walls and floor of his office might be, it was, in a way, rather apt. So he had mused occasionally, when he was being driven through either an early morning or a late night dawn – the perception of time depending on his activities shortly before the moment – and was struck by the similarity of the hue on his walls and the thin shroud detected by the first tentative light shimmering over The Thames.
Still, the supposedly restful qualities of the colour didn’t work for Mycroft now. He threw another impatient glance at his watch. The plane bearing ‘Siger Sigerson’ – Mycroft’s mouth had twisted in a moue of disapproval when he read the facetious name – had landed at Heathrow at the expected arrival time of three seventeen a.m. exactly and the men he’d dispatched to welcome Mr Sigerson back to English soil ought to have made their way to The Diogenes by now. Irritably he tapped at a few keys on his laptop to hide his impatience. His right forefinger had just connected with the ‘s’ rather forcefully when a knock on the door made him lift it and use it to flick an invisible mote of dust from his oxblood red tie.
Instantly, the rather heavy slab of solid steel was thrown open to grant access to two members of his security personnel manhandling their seething quarry into the room. From his stance it was clear Sherlock had long since given up hurling insults at the men. They carried him straight up to the desk where they halted and stood awaiting their instructions, seemingly oblivious to the irate man between them, who was now glaring daggers at their employer.
Mycroft perceived with interest the tips of Sherlock’s dress shoes didn’t quite touch the floor, even though his brother’s feet were desperately scrambling for purchase there.
“You may let go of him,” he instructed, genially, ending the command with a quiet, “thank you, ” to let the men now they were dismissed for the rest of the evening. Both men obeyed instantly, nearly causing Sherlock to topple into a heap on the ground. Deftly, he reasserted himself. The security pivoted on their heels and marched out, pulling the door shut behind them.
Glowering after them Sherlock straightened the lapels of his jacket before turning to confront Mycroft, who had put the interval to use by adopting a languid posture.
"What the hell are you playing at, Mycroft?" Sherlock snarled.
Mycroft steepled his fingers in front of his mouth before countering, “I might well ask you the same, brother dear. Why don’t you take a seat so we can have a nice chat? Playing for high stakes, weren’t you?”
Childishly defiant as always, Sherlock remained standing. “Playing by the rules you mean,” he tossed down at Mycroft.
Over the roof of the tiny temple he’d created Mycroft gazed up at his younger sibling. Despite the rather chilly spring night Sherlock wasn’t wearing his ubiquitous Belstaff and shawl, which, considering the climate he’d just flown in from, made sense, Mycroft supposed. Unfortunately, the absence of these items also granted Mycroft an unencumbered view of his brother’s throat and the pulse point throbbing there, just beneath the skin.
In anger, Mycroft reminded himself. Never mind the fury was wholly unjustified. If anything, he ought to be the one who was livid, what with the laborious problem Sherlock, in his misguided ebullition of chivalry, had landed Mycroft with.
“Whose rules, Sherlock,” he chided gently. “Certainly not those agreed upon by the majority of the public. If they were even aware of Miss Adler’s, not thanks to you continued, existence, they would most likely be more than happy to be rid of her. What is she but a bit of bad rubbish? And do I need to remind you, Moriarty’s bad rubbish?”
“She gave you everything you wanted, Mycroft, and more. There was no reason to toss her out on the streets and leave her helpless.” Balling his fist, Sherlock took a step nearer to the desk.
Mycroft slightly adjusted the angle of his back in his chair before raising one querulous eyebrow.
“Miss Adler helpless.” Mycroft tutted. “My, my, little brother, so you fell for the act after all. Tell me, was it a pleasant experience? The novelty of it must have been interesting, at least.”
The instant flush that crept up over Sherlock’s face was infinitely reassuring to Mycroft. Thankfully, the woman had been gracious enough to redirect any prurient motives that might have driven Sherlock to his imprudent rescue.
“That wasn’t…” Sherlock began before interrupting himself. A sly look flitted over his features and the next moment he’d circled the desk and brought his face quite close to Mycroft’s face.
“You’re jealous,” he growled, the warm air of his breath rushing over Mycroft’s lips. The sharp shards of icy blue amidst the myriads of colours (dawn grey amongst them Mycroft couldn’t help noticing) of Sherlock’s irises bore down straight to the core of Mycroft’s soul. He fought desperately to steady his breathing and will his body to unresponsiveness. With a heroic effort he managed to unlock his gaze from Sherlock’s and let it travel down lower. When it latched onto his sibling’s lips, slightly parted and pinked from fury, he concluded that was even worse and settled for the less challenging zone of Sherlock’s right jaw instead.
His hands were tightly gripping the armrests of his chair but Mycroft mustered enough willpower to release his right hand and use it to give a Sherlock’s solar plexus a deliberate hard shove, causing him to stagger back.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said in a voice carefully crafted to sound as smooth and cold as the shards of ice in Sherlock’s eyes. “Why would I even be interested in my brother’s immature infatuation with an overpaid sex worker? No, what interests me, or rather, inconveniences and annoys me, is wasting taxpayer’s money to enter her into a witness protection scheme.”
“Oh.” Sherlock looked sincerely dumbfounded by Mycroft’s answer for a moment.
Confident he’d gained the upper hand again, Mycroft continued in a fractious tone, “Really, Sherlock, don’t tell me you hadn’t even for a moment considered what she was to do with the rest of her life before darting off to put your grand rescue scheme into effect? Or had you cast yourself in the role of dashing pirate…”
“Of course not,” Sherlock almost shouted. “It’s like I said, she didn’t deserve what you’d done to her.”
“She deserved every bit of it, and more. However, as, contrary to your persistent claims, I am indeed quite devoted to your continuing welfare and health, I’ll look after her and keep her safe. Of course there’s the matter of putting to rest any suspicions John might harbour, but you can leave that to me as well.”
Sherlock, to his credit, swallowed rather heavily, causing his Adam’s apple to bob up and down in his throat in a way Mycroft found entirely too riveting. Slanting his gaze to the papers on his desk, as if already bored with the proceedings, he intoned, “That will be all then, I believe. You can see yourself out, can’t you?”
From the sound of Sherlock’s soles shuffling against the floor Mycroft gathered Sherlock was dawdling, obviously undecided whether he should say something, express his gratitude perhaps, or not. Then, the soles slapped the grey concrete in Sherlock’s customary agile gait and he was near the door.
“Thank you, Mycroft,” he said, so soft Mycroft wasn’t sure he’d heard.
***
Slowly, he turned round, his hand resting lightly on the door handle. Mycroft, who had been following Sherlock’s every move, now raised his head and their eyes locked over the width of the room. They held each other for what felt like seconds, the blood pounding heavily in Mycroft’s ears, and lower down. Surreptitiously, against his will, his tongue shot out and swept across his lower lip. Sherlock blinked, once, and in three strides of his long legs he was across the room and astride Mycroft’s lap, pushing his tongue into Mycroft’s mouth and grinding their erections together through layers of clothing.
“Dearest,” Mycroft murmured, when they broke apart for breath, bringing up his knuckles to draw them down from the high cheekbone to the generously rounded chin and lower down still, trailing past the slender, flowing line of the throat and under the collar of Sherlock’s shirt were the delicate skin covering his collarbone was flushed and warm.
“Mycroft,” Sherlock stammered, helplessly. His eyes were big and wide, the myriad colours swirling in a haze of lust and desire. Never before had Mycroft seen him so beautiful, though he’d dreamed about this, often enough.
“Please,” he said, “let me.” If they were going to do this, if Sherlock had understood at last that Mycroft was indeed deeply jealous, not of Miss Adler’s interest in Sherlock, but of the possibility the interest might be reciprocated, and if his sudden grasp of the implications had landed him here in Mycroft’s lap, then Mycroft wanted the experience to be as pleasurable as possible for Sherlock. Should he look back with remorse, later, when he had come back to his senses again, Mycroft didn’t want him to regret his impulsiveness for having led to bad sex. If truth be told, Mycroft ought not to have let the situation get this far out of hand and shoved Sherlock of his lap instantly. But even he was human, regrettably so, and made of flesh. Base flesh that had been yearning after his brother’s, ever since he’d first perceived what a glorious specimen of homo sapiens his younger sibling had evolved into.
Planting one hand amidst the thick waves of Sherlock’s hair to draw him closer his mouth searched Sherlock’s again to engage him into another long kiss, playfully tugging at Sherlock’s generous lower lip and sucking on the wet velvet of his tongue. Mycroft dipped his other hands between their bodies to unbutton Sherlock’s trousers and draw down the zipper. His thighs felt Sherlock tensing, the strong clench of his muscles forcing Mycroft’s thighs painfullly close together but then he relaxed, settling himself a bit deeper into Mycroft’s lap instead. Pleased, Mycroft smiled against Sherlock’s mouth.
“Just leave it to me,” he whispered. He’d take care of his brother. In the end, whether Sherlock liked it or not, that was what he always did. What he was born to do.
Gently, he lifted Sherlock from his lap. Sherlock looked confused for a moment and Mycroft made good use of it to tug down his trousers and black boxer briefs, before depositing him on the desk. “Best lie down,” he advised and without further ado fell down to his knees and took Sherlock into his mouth, the shocked gasp of pleasure from the desk sending a jittery jolt of the same down his spine and up straight into his balls.
The taste of Sherlock’s flesh in his mouth was even more overwhelmingly delicious than he’d ever imagined and he’d indulged in the fantasy often enough. Mycroft swirled his tongue around the velvety soft texture of the head, lapped at the slit and used a hand to guide him in deeper, bringing his nose closer to the eddying black mass of curls in front of his eyes and the delirious smell wafting up from Sherlock’s heated skin.
The fingers of his other hand fumbled clumsily with his own buttons and zip until he was able to free his straining erection at last and get a good grip on it. He began to stroke, setting up a fierce rhythm in time to the bobbing of his head. Panting now, Sherlock began to thrust up into Mycroft’s mouth, tentatively at first, but when Mycroft did nothing to dissuade him, the snap of his hips got wilder; he’d pushed himself up on his forearms and used the leverage to drive his flesh into the hot tight wetness Mycroft provided him with.
Mycroft’s hand sped up as he felt as well as tasted that Sherlock was close to completion. A final buck of his hips and then he was spending himself on Mycroft’s tongue, throwing his head back while his chest heaved with the force of his release. Tenderly, Mycroft suckled him through his orgasm, savouring every briny drop and then his head fell onto the taut muscles of Sherlock’s abdomen and he moaned against the skin as his own climax hit him, shaking through his body until he lost all connection with reality.
***
Mycroft opened his eyes. The clock on his desk informed him it was five thirty a.m., time to go home and try to catch some sleep. Tomorrow was another long day, what with the Indian elections, and the scheduled talk with that tedious imbecile of an US Secretary of State. Reaching for another tissue Mycroft cleaned the pathetic limp mollusc resting in his hand. Against better knowledge, he brought the tissue up to his nose to sniff at it, chiding himself for a fool for of course the thin paper bore no trace of Sherlock.
Suddenly tiredness, laced with maddening melancholy, overwhelmed him. Post coitum omni animal triste est, he murmured to himself and momentarily closed his eyes against the pain.
Then, he shook himself and threw the tissue into the wastepaper basket. After checking his clothing for spots and rearranging his clothing to his satisfaction he levered himself out of his chair and walked over to the wall cupboard to retrieve his overcoat, shawl and umbrella. He threw a last look around the room to ascertain everything was in order and then he turned the light switch, instantly replacing the grey of dawn with a blackness as deep as any starless night.
Pairing: Sherlock/Mycroft
Warnings: sibling incest
Rating: NC17
Beta: unbetaed. Apologies in advance for all the mistakes
Word count: approx. 2,550
Summary: They held each other for what felt like seconds, the blood pounding heavily in Mycroft’s ears, and lower down.
Disclaimer: Sherlock and Mycroft belong to the BBC and Steve Moffat and Mark Gatiss. My profit is the joy I had in writing. Yours, I hope, the joy in reading
Dawn grey. When Mycroft had read the words printed beneath the colour that had immediately leapt out at him from the array of colour swatches spread out on his desk his nose had wrinkled in displeasure. He understood all too well why manufacturers of such a homely commodity as paint had chosen to label the shades they stocked with names lifted straight out of the products in the catalogue of the Mills & Boon company, but that didn’t mean he had to applaud the current system. Swallowing his distaste Mycroft had ticked the colour and, with a sigh, reached over for the lamp shade catalogue his PA had provided him with.
But Mycroft was very pleased with the final result of his sojourn into the tedious world of interior decoration. For his new office – hidden in a bunker that had been quickly dug beneath the hallowed wine cellars of The Diogenes during those twilight months of the Phoney War – suited him far better than the bland atrocity he had to make do with at Whitehall. Here, he was certain to be left alone so he could concentrate on his daily task of sailing the ship of state through the increasingly erratic waves that seemed to rule modern society. In this office his sole connection with the outside world was his computer, the red phone on his desk with its direct link him to his dear friend, should the work demand it, and his PA, who appreciated the seclusion almost as much as Mycroft.
And, all in all, ludicrous as the name of the tint he’d elected to cover the walls and floor of his office might be, it was, in a way, rather apt. So he had mused occasionally, when he was being driven through either an early morning or a late night dawn – the perception of time depending on his activities shortly before the moment – and was struck by the similarity of the hue on his walls and the thin shroud detected by the first tentative light shimmering over The Thames.
Still, the supposedly restful qualities of the colour didn’t work for Mycroft now. He threw another impatient glance at his watch. The plane bearing ‘Siger Sigerson’ – Mycroft’s mouth had twisted in a moue of disapproval when he read the facetious name – had landed at Heathrow at the expected arrival time of three seventeen a.m. exactly and the men he’d dispatched to welcome Mr Sigerson back to English soil ought to have made their way to The Diogenes by now. Irritably he tapped at a few keys on his laptop to hide his impatience. His right forefinger had just connected with the ‘s’ rather forcefully when a knock on the door made him lift it and use it to flick an invisible mote of dust from his oxblood red tie.
Instantly, the rather heavy slab of solid steel was thrown open to grant access to two members of his security personnel manhandling their seething quarry into the room. From his stance it was clear Sherlock had long since given up hurling insults at the men. They carried him straight up to the desk where they halted and stood awaiting their instructions, seemingly oblivious to the irate man between them, who was now glaring daggers at their employer.
Mycroft perceived with interest the tips of Sherlock’s dress shoes didn’t quite touch the floor, even though his brother’s feet were desperately scrambling for purchase there.
“You may let go of him,” he instructed, genially, ending the command with a quiet, “thank you, ” to let the men now they were dismissed for the rest of the evening. Both men obeyed instantly, nearly causing Sherlock to topple into a heap on the ground. Deftly, he reasserted himself. The security pivoted on their heels and marched out, pulling the door shut behind them.
Glowering after them Sherlock straightened the lapels of his jacket before turning to confront Mycroft, who had put the interval to use by adopting a languid posture.
"What the hell are you playing at, Mycroft?" Sherlock snarled.
Mycroft steepled his fingers in front of his mouth before countering, “I might well ask you the same, brother dear. Why don’t you take a seat so we can have a nice chat? Playing for high stakes, weren’t you?”
Childishly defiant as always, Sherlock remained standing. “Playing by the rules you mean,” he tossed down at Mycroft.
Over the roof of the tiny temple he’d created Mycroft gazed up at his younger sibling. Despite the rather chilly spring night Sherlock wasn’t wearing his ubiquitous Belstaff and shawl, which, considering the climate he’d just flown in from, made sense, Mycroft supposed. Unfortunately, the absence of these items also granted Mycroft an unencumbered view of his brother’s throat and the pulse point throbbing there, just beneath the skin.
In anger, Mycroft reminded himself. Never mind the fury was wholly unjustified. If anything, he ought to be the one who was livid, what with the laborious problem Sherlock, in his misguided ebullition of chivalry, had landed Mycroft with.
“Whose rules, Sherlock,” he chided gently. “Certainly not those agreed upon by the majority of the public. If they were even aware of Miss Adler’s, not thanks to you continued, existence, they would most likely be more than happy to be rid of her. What is she but a bit of bad rubbish? And do I need to remind you, Moriarty’s bad rubbish?”
“She gave you everything you wanted, Mycroft, and more. There was no reason to toss her out on the streets and leave her helpless.” Balling his fist, Sherlock took a step nearer to the desk.
Mycroft slightly adjusted the angle of his back in his chair before raising one querulous eyebrow.
“Miss Adler helpless.” Mycroft tutted. “My, my, little brother, so you fell for the act after all. Tell me, was it a pleasant experience? The novelty of it must have been interesting, at least.”
The instant flush that crept up over Sherlock’s face was infinitely reassuring to Mycroft. Thankfully, the woman had been gracious enough to redirect any prurient motives that might have driven Sherlock to his imprudent rescue.
“That wasn’t…” Sherlock began before interrupting himself. A sly look flitted over his features and the next moment he’d circled the desk and brought his face quite close to Mycroft’s face.
“You’re jealous,” he growled, the warm air of his breath rushing over Mycroft’s lips. The sharp shards of icy blue amidst the myriads of colours (dawn grey amongst them Mycroft couldn’t help noticing) of Sherlock’s irises bore down straight to the core of Mycroft’s soul. He fought desperately to steady his breathing and will his body to unresponsiveness. With a heroic effort he managed to unlock his gaze from Sherlock’s and let it travel down lower. When it latched onto his sibling’s lips, slightly parted and pinked from fury, he concluded that was even worse and settled for the less challenging zone of Sherlock’s right jaw instead.
His hands were tightly gripping the armrests of his chair but Mycroft mustered enough willpower to release his right hand and use it to give a Sherlock’s solar plexus a deliberate hard shove, causing him to stagger back.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said in a voice carefully crafted to sound as smooth and cold as the shards of ice in Sherlock’s eyes. “Why would I even be interested in my brother’s immature infatuation with an overpaid sex worker? No, what interests me, or rather, inconveniences and annoys me, is wasting taxpayer’s money to enter her into a witness protection scheme.”
“Oh.” Sherlock looked sincerely dumbfounded by Mycroft’s answer for a moment.
Confident he’d gained the upper hand again, Mycroft continued in a fractious tone, “Really, Sherlock, don’t tell me you hadn’t even for a moment considered what she was to do with the rest of her life before darting off to put your grand rescue scheme into effect? Or had you cast yourself in the role of dashing pirate…”
“Of course not,” Sherlock almost shouted. “It’s like I said, she didn’t deserve what you’d done to her.”
“She deserved every bit of it, and more. However, as, contrary to your persistent claims, I am indeed quite devoted to your continuing welfare and health, I’ll look after her and keep her safe. Of course there’s the matter of putting to rest any suspicions John might harbour, but you can leave that to me as well.”
Sherlock, to his credit, swallowed rather heavily, causing his Adam’s apple to bob up and down in his throat in a way Mycroft found entirely too riveting. Slanting his gaze to the papers on his desk, as if already bored with the proceedings, he intoned, “That will be all then, I believe. You can see yourself out, can’t you?”
From the sound of Sherlock’s soles shuffling against the floor Mycroft gathered Sherlock was dawdling, obviously undecided whether he should say something, express his gratitude perhaps, or not. Then, the soles slapped the grey concrete in Sherlock’s customary agile gait and he was near the door.
“Thank you, Mycroft,” he said, so soft Mycroft wasn’t sure he’d heard.
***
Slowly, he turned round, his hand resting lightly on the door handle. Mycroft, who had been following Sherlock’s every move, now raised his head and their eyes locked over the width of the room. They held each other for what felt like seconds, the blood pounding heavily in Mycroft’s ears, and lower down. Surreptitiously, against his will, his tongue shot out and swept across his lower lip. Sherlock blinked, once, and in three strides of his long legs he was across the room and astride Mycroft’s lap, pushing his tongue into Mycroft’s mouth and grinding their erections together through layers of clothing.
“Dearest,” Mycroft murmured, when they broke apart for breath, bringing up his knuckles to draw them down from the high cheekbone to the generously rounded chin and lower down still, trailing past the slender, flowing line of the throat and under the collar of Sherlock’s shirt were the delicate skin covering his collarbone was flushed and warm.
“Mycroft,” Sherlock stammered, helplessly. His eyes were big and wide, the myriad colours swirling in a haze of lust and desire. Never before had Mycroft seen him so beautiful, though he’d dreamed about this, often enough.
“Please,” he said, “let me.” If they were going to do this, if Sherlock had understood at last that Mycroft was indeed deeply jealous, not of Miss Adler’s interest in Sherlock, but of the possibility the interest might be reciprocated, and if his sudden grasp of the implications had landed him here in Mycroft’s lap, then Mycroft wanted the experience to be as pleasurable as possible for Sherlock. Should he look back with remorse, later, when he had come back to his senses again, Mycroft didn’t want him to regret his impulsiveness for having led to bad sex. If truth be told, Mycroft ought not to have let the situation get this far out of hand and shoved Sherlock of his lap instantly. But even he was human, regrettably so, and made of flesh. Base flesh that had been yearning after his brother’s, ever since he’d first perceived what a glorious specimen of homo sapiens his younger sibling had evolved into.
Planting one hand amidst the thick waves of Sherlock’s hair to draw him closer his mouth searched Sherlock’s again to engage him into another long kiss, playfully tugging at Sherlock’s generous lower lip and sucking on the wet velvet of his tongue. Mycroft dipped his other hands between their bodies to unbutton Sherlock’s trousers and draw down the zipper. His thighs felt Sherlock tensing, the strong clench of his muscles forcing Mycroft’s thighs painfullly close together but then he relaxed, settling himself a bit deeper into Mycroft’s lap instead. Pleased, Mycroft smiled against Sherlock’s mouth.
“Just leave it to me,” he whispered. He’d take care of his brother. In the end, whether Sherlock liked it or not, that was what he always did. What he was born to do.
Gently, he lifted Sherlock from his lap. Sherlock looked confused for a moment and Mycroft made good use of it to tug down his trousers and black boxer briefs, before depositing him on the desk. “Best lie down,” he advised and without further ado fell down to his knees and took Sherlock into his mouth, the shocked gasp of pleasure from the desk sending a jittery jolt of the same down his spine and up straight into his balls.
The taste of Sherlock’s flesh in his mouth was even more overwhelmingly delicious than he’d ever imagined and he’d indulged in the fantasy often enough. Mycroft swirled his tongue around the velvety soft texture of the head, lapped at the slit and used a hand to guide him in deeper, bringing his nose closer to the eddying black mass of curls in front of his eyes and the delirious smell wafting up from Sherlock’s heated skin.
The fingers of his other hand fumbled clumsily with his own buttons and zip until he was able to free his straining erection at last and get a good grip on it. He began to stroke, setting up a fierce rhythm in time to the bobbing of his head. Panting now, Sherlock began to thrust up into Mycroft’s mouth, tentatively at first, but when Mycroft did nothing to dissuade him, the snap of his hips got wilder; he’d pushed himself up on his forearms and used the leverage to drive his flesh into the hot tight wetness Mycroft provided him with.
Mycroft’s hand sped up as he felt as well as tasted that Sherlock was close to completion. A final buck of his hips and then he was spending himself on Mycroft’s tongue, throwing his head back while his chest heaved with the force of his release. Tenderly, Mycroft suckled him through his orgasm, savouring every briny drop and then his head fell onto the taut muscles of Sherlock’s abdomen and he moaned against the skin as his own climax hit him, shaking through his body until he lost all connection with reality.
***
Mycroft opened his eyes. The clock on his desk informed him it was five thirty a.m., time to go home and try to catch some sleep. Tomorrow was another long day, what with the Indian elections, and the scheduled talk with that tedious imbecile of an US Secretary of State. Reaching for another tissue Mycroft cleaned the pathetic limp mollusc resting in his hand. Against better knowledge, he brought the tissue up to his nose to sniff at it, chiding himself for a fool for of course the thin paper bore no trace of Sherlock.
Suddenly tiredness, laced with maddening melancholy, overwhelmed him. Post coitum omni animal triste est, he murmured to himself and momentarily closed his eyes against the pain.
Then, he shook himself and threw the tissue into the wastepaper basket. After checking his clothing for spots and rearranging his clothing to his satisfaction he levered himself out of his chair and walked over to the wall cupboard to retrieve his overcoat, shawl and umbrella. He threw a last look around the room to ascertain everything was in order and then he turned the light switch, instantly replacing the grey of dawn with a blackness as deep as any starless night.
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